The Malevolent Homebuyer

By Wally Mading

In the past 25 years, over 250 real-estate agents have been assaulted on the job. Many
of them raped and murdered. Charlie Daniels, president of Montanas largest board of
Realtors, read this statement to his associates. It was from the National Association of
Realtors and arrived only days before the first-ever rape-murder of a city Realtor. Another
killing followed.
A rapist-killer is now established and on the prowl in Montanas largest city and
he leaves no evidence. He has a fixation on beautiful real-estate women with black hair.
He is a lawmans worst nightmarea rapist-killer from a distant place with two years spent
building local trust. Now, he has a plan to rape and kill, and repeat his grisly work.
The killings send a message to female Realtorsa killer walks among us, business
as usual is over. Women are the backbone of the real-estate sales force, but apprehension
hangs in the air. Sally Stokes, attractive middle-aged widow with two young daughters,
cannot afford to hole up. Neither can gorgeous Sheena Lovely, the rumored great-grand
daughter of Montana native Gary Cooper.
Law enforcement is stymied. They look to a retired man-hunter, Sheriff Wade
Hollingsworth, for input, but his conclusion is surreal, the contrast too largewould a
killer leave the protective concealment of peopled Seattle for the vastness of Montana?
Two years past, the Seattle media tagged a similar killer, The Taker. Can The Taker really
be in Montana, operating under a guise of innocence?
When the aging sheriffs beautiful protg Sheena is taken, he acts on his hunch.
Alone he trudges to a suspected wilderness hide-away where he finds herhopeless
waiting. Now they must elude the returning sadist. Apprehensively, they start an arduous
trip out of the mountains with no conception of the horror awaiting them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456871703

Wally Mading

In keeping with the non-fi ctional aspect of this memoir, the author’s name, Wallace Madding is used. He has been published as Wally Mading. A “d” was dropped from the author’s true name at birth. This romantic memoir is therefore true throughout unless otherwise specifi ed. Madding attended college at Missouri State University and the University of Montana and was a four year starting football player at both schools. He is a retired real-estate broker and former United States Marine. He was also a rodeo cowboy and has been a lifelong outdoorsman. Madding has been married to the former Frances Ann Lea for 59 years. They have three children and fi ve grandchildren and live in Billings, Montana. This is third published book.

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Prologue

SPRING, 2008.

The fulfillment of his dream is growing nearer with every passing mile: Interstate 90 to Columbus, over the Yellowstone River to Absarokee, further south to Roscoe. Gleefully, he revels at the quaint names, as the majestic snowcapped Beartooth Mountains loom ever closer. Somewhere in that panorama is hidden the cabin his father built.

The pavement turns to gravel, and he is increasingly aware of the solitude. Soon, the stillness is broken only by the cry of a meadowlark. He stares at the locked gate, exactly as his father once described. Two dim, rock-strewn wheel tracks lead through the thick meadow grass as he eases the SUV upward through darkening timber. Still, the trail climbs, remote, distancing him from civilization.

In time, a green metal roof peeks through the trees. A wheeled vehicle can go no further. Saw blades cross the front door to repel furry intruders, and slashes confirm they have been here. The coolness of the forest is forgotten now; feverishly, he enters the cabin. Soon, he steps back onto the porch. For a time, he stands rock still absorbing the silence, and then he hurls his sinister notice into the dark forest: "The Taker Is Coming"

Chapter 1

Thursday, 6:00 a.m. Early Autumn, 2010.

The grey vision of Matt’s crushed face peering from a body bag jerks Sally upright. Once again she can almost smell the stench of the morgue. Will the view of her husband’s crushed body on a gurney never go away?

Her fitful demons of the night now become the realities of the day. Her commissions are no longer the family-mad money; she and her daughters depend upon what she brings home. Sally Stokes, widow, mother, Realtor, is back on the treadmill, and today isn’t starting well.

She feels unprepared for the morning’s activities, but rehashing her husband’s death helps nothing. Returning from a late meeting promoting Stokes Hydraulics, he was sideswiped by another drinking driver sending both cars into uncontrollable spins that killed both drivers.

The insurance companies were initially cooperative. Now they feud over who was to blame, leaving Sally with two remorseless tasks: making a living in a collapsed housing market and disposing of a specialties company about which she knows zilch.

She calls, Are you two out of bed? She hears one Yeah, Mom, from Jenny, her oldest. There is nothing from Megan. This is going to be another typical day.

Jenny seemed to accept the death of her father, but Megan was struggling. The ten-year-old wore a pouting, sullen demeanor, and it reflected in her schoolwork. It was troubling.

She sucks it up, gets her kids to school and heads for the office and her nine o’clock with Henry Slade, an incoming bigwig with a national trucking firm. A former customer referred Slade, and a call to Cheyenne confirmed he was indeed a prospective homebuyer. It was nine fifteen. It would be nine thirty before she reached the office.

He was sitting across the large reception area engrossed in a magazine. It was appraisal time.

He was handsome, in a mature way, and about her age—early forties or thereabouts. He looked up through eyes so pale blue they looked unreal. Sally noted his outdoor look—a deep tan that said ski slopes or golf course, wealth and possibilities.

He wore an open white shirt with no undershirt under the pin stripe, and Sally could see almond chest hairs. His tie was probably in a pocket, and he likely came directly from the office.

He pushed his Brad Pitt hair back using his fingers like a comb. He was impressed: This is the businesslike woman that called me in Cheyenne? Wow!

Sally came with her best assets. She was dressed sexy-professional—not to the nines, but close; she could pass for Katie Couric’s sister. Her dark suit ended just above her knees and drew attention to her white button-front blouse, two buttons discreetly open. She wore black strappy pumps, not stilettos, but the heels were high enough to draw attention to her tanned, immaculate legs. She exuded femininity and sexuality.

Sally scurried toward him with her hand extended. Mr. Slade, I’m Sally Stokes. When he took her hand, she stopped him from rising and, instead, plopped down beside him.

"I won’t even attempt to tell you all I’ve been through with my kids this morning. It’s no excuse, I know. I’m a widowed mom with two turtles. You have my solemn promise; I’ll not be late for an appointment with you again. Forgive me, please."

Her request came out a plea, emphasized with her left hand resting on his arm. When he appeared to notice, she decided enough touchy-feely and asked, Did Millie explain I might be late? As she released Slade’s hand, her confidence seemed to grow—this was a pro at work.

Slade finally composed himself. You’re the lady that called me in Cheyenne?

I’m guilty.

Well, by all means, good morning. People usually call me Hank. You don’t need to apologize; you’re not big-time late. I’ve been married. I know how you girls don’t leave the house until appointment time.

Then, he grinned. Think nothing of it. Have you got something for us to look at? I’ve taken the day, and I’m damned tired of hotels.

Yes, I have. Sally laid three real-estate house flyers on the coffee table and said, Care for coffee? When he nodded, she said, Be right back. These are the homes I’ve chosen to show you. The pictures never do them justice, but the facts will give you a good description.

He waited until she walked away to look and do his own appraisal. She’s perhaps forty-five, for sure not older, a new widow having trouble getting her life together. That trim waist says she’s a worker, probably a health-club freak. Those legs didn’t come by accident. She’ll do to bang around Montana with. All riiiight!

Slade glanced through her choices and tentatively approved: one near Red Lodge, one outside Columbus, the other near Rockvale. He wasn’t aware, but her choices made for a swing that would take most of the day.

In the coffee room, Sally asked, Was he getting antsy before I got here, Millie?

A little, not bad, the chubby-but-cute receptionist said. Gosh, isn’t he a knockout? So are you! After he got a look at you, he didn’t mind the wait. You sure look nice today, Sal.

Think so? Thanks, Mill. She looked back as she kneed the door open. Wish me luck.

Approaching Slade with coffee, Sally knew the look—trouble. He was on his cell; the frown said bad news was on the way.

When he snapped the phone shut, he said, Ms. Stokes, I hate to do this, but I’ve got to reschedule our time together. Something’s come up at the office. I’ll call and set another time with you. He looked concerned.

Sally couldn’t contain her disappointment, but managed, Take care of your work. My only hope is that nothing we were going to look at sells. Any idea when we might be able to go again?

He didn’t answer, merely said, I’ll call.

She still held the tray as he exited the building. Sure, he’ll call, like all be-backers will. I’ll give that sucker two days, then, he’s hearing from me. Don’t quit him till he buys or dies, Sally, and don’t accept, I’ll get back to ya.

She looked at the notice from the board of Realtors lying on her desk. It read: URGENT: THIS MEETING MIGHT SAVE YOUR LIFE! It sounded like a meeting that shouldn’t be ignored. She resolved to be there.

Chapter 2

Friday, 12:00 noon. Realtors’ weekly scheduled meeting.

An unobtrusive observer sat in the rear of the huge Elk’s Club meeting room where the second largest board of Realtors in the state of Montana held its weekly meetings. He knew what the pre-announced notice pertained to; he had witnessed similar announcements.

Now, he was staring at a photograph of Nancy Simmons. When she arrived, he watched her pass. She confirmed his choice. He smiled and closed the multiple-listing directory with a comical murmur, She fits my bucket list.

Earlier, he had anticipated nothing new at this meeting, billed as one that might save lives. A handout review of the program displayed no advice other boards hadn’t given other salespeople. Now, he sat by himself, exuding humility, but he considered no one his friend. He sought no closeness. They knew him, which was enough. Any outgoings of emotion were always his to originate. He had mastered the ruse of goodwill toward associates. It confused, misled, and created the illusion he desired. He felt secure; his deception was almost complete. Now he could look back in euphoria; the wait had been worthwhile. He knew every passing face. Without fanfare, he left the meeting and prepared for the rest of his day. Had he waited until the arrival of the voluptuous Sheena, his choice might have been different.

—

Real-estate women had been his choice almost from the beginning.

He picked his first real-estate lover from a publication. four years past. She was beautiful, exactly as he preferred: petite, with black hair

He drove by the open house twice. It was semi-rural, surrounded by trees, close to Seattle, yet with no neighbors within screaming distance. The open-house signs, posted at street corners, guided him to the house. Before he entered, he pulled the sign stuck in the yard, and then he backed down the long driveway and rang the bell.

She looked better than her picture in the ad. Hello, I’m Celia. Please come in. The owners have gone for the afternoon so you can look unhurriedly. Why did you back in?

Hello, Celia. So I can pull out if anyone blocks me in. Looks like you need some lookers. He stuck out his hand in a disarming gesture. I’m Pat.

Some people have been by, but it’s pretty slow. Want me to show you around, Pat, or do you prefer to look by yourself?

If it’s OK by you, I’ll find my way around. If I see something I question, I’ll call you. OK?

For sure! She made a help-yourself motion with her hands, then walked across the room and seated herself at a card table and turned to some paperwork. She was twenty-four at the most and dressed in a pale green jumpsuit with running shoes. Her dress was indicative of the informality now common among most real-estate salespeople. He would have preferred a skirt or dress. She had a small waist and full breasts; clearly, no bra.

He made a show of walking through the house, making sure there would be no surprises. He looked in the large, empty double garage and tried the garage-door opener. The entire setup was perfect—two stories, no basement.

As he finished looking at the master bedroom, he walked to the double hung windows and looked out through the blinds. No activity was in sight. He eased back downstairs and made a show of studying the great room. Celia, I’m wondering about something, he said. Do you suppose you can break away for a moment and show me something in the master bedroom?

Chapter 3

When they reached the stairs, he motioned for her to go up first. Innocently, she started up. When she passed, he wrapped his right arm around her neck, under her chin. He caught his folded left arm at the elbow and lifted her off the floor, holding her suspended.

The woman had no chance to scream. She clawed at his arm and gasped for breath, hardly able to believe what this pleasant man was doing. Without releasing her, he backed to the paneled door and peered out through the door’s decorative window, ignoring her struggles.

Scream, Celia, scream. You’re driving me wild, he whispered in her ear. He slowly counted to sixty and released her on the final count. She slid to the floor. He felt for a pulse. She was alive. The martial arts instructor’s Chinese Strangle Hold worked perfectly. She was his.

He left her in the utility room and opened the overhead garage door. No one was in sight. He backed into the garage, but as the door closed, he caught his breath: a car of lookers was pulling into the driveway. He scurried through the house and turned the deadbolt. Then, he stood with his back to the front door.

It seemed like forever before the doorbell rang. He held his breath and waited. Finally, a man’s voice called, Are you sure this is the right house? No open-house sign.

Well, I think so, a female voice answered. Let me check the paper again. After a moment, the female voice said, This is the address in the paper.

No one home.

Ring the bell again.

It rang. He waited. Their voices were fading as he heard a moan from the garage. No, no, he breathed, not with everything working perfectly.

He looked through the living-room window. They were leaving. He scurried to the garage. The girl’s eyes were glazed. Then, her eyes turned to saucers and took on a look of fear. He saw a scream coming and clamped a hand over her mouth, then pinned her to the floor with his knees on her arms. A handkerchief was forced into her mouth. Then he peeled a strand of duct tape. He wound it around her head over the handkerchief.

Against her struggles, he flipped her onto her stomach and grasped her hands together behind her back. Carefully, he taped them and her ankles.

She was light. He opened the driver’s side window and sprung the trunk lid. Roughly, he flopped the writhing girl down on the floor and reached in to pat her cheek. Don’t cry. You’ll like everything I do. He covered her with two pieces of worn canvass.

Standing on tiptoes, he peered through the slotted window near the top of the overhead door. The driveway and street were clear. He opened the door and drove the car out. Then, he closed the overhead door, and did a final check of the house, wiping everything he could remember touching.

He exited through the garage side door and looked both ways; then, he slowly eased out of the driveway and headed for a wooded spot, a pre-chosen place that was dark, remote, rain-forest thick and perfect for what he had in mind.

The afternoon passed quickly. The increasing pressure from the law convinced him to leave Seattle; Celia’s screams added emphasis. He needed solitude, a place they could scream their little heads off. His sexual frenzy abated with the last thrust of the knife, and her dying scream. Only then did he breathe the resolve: My cabin in Montana.

Chapter 4

Before the Friday luncheon meeting, Charlie Daniels, president of the board of Realtors, had called Sally aside and introduced Sheena Lovely, his new saleswoman. Charlie had adored Sally from a distance for years, one of his favorite competitors. She was a classy lady, always dressed to the nines. His flimsy attempts to proselyte her had thus far been unsuccessful; but they had, over the years, become good friends. He admired her formality and hoped some of it would rub off on Sheena, his drop-dead gorgeous new saleswoman.

Sheena’s name was Butte-Irish, and her surname fit. She was stunningly beautiful, with long dark hair that was almost auburn when it caught glancing sunlight. It framed a tanned, slightly freckled face. She wasn’t tall, but her Wrangler jeans accentuated her voluptuous long legs. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t anticipated the effect her tight sweater would have on salesmen at the meeting, but now she was uncomfortable under their stares.

As she and Sally visited, Sally seemed to hold back. Sheena had that effect on other women until they grew to know her. Clearly, Sheena’s manner of dress would not have been Sally’s choice, but her personality was overwhelmingly friendly, and in a short time, Sally seemed to solve her own problem—the two were soon chatting amiably, a friendship in the making.

After lunch, Charlie tapped the gavel. He went through some preliminary matters and soon got to the heart of the matter—the reason for sending the warning: Between 1982 and 2007, two hundred forty-seven real estate agents were killed on the job, he said, according to a safety report recently published by the National Association of Realtors. Untold other agents are raped, robbed, and mugged. National has suggested these guidelines. He nodded at a member near the exit, and she flipped the light switch.

When the room went dark, the screen behind Charlie lit up. A projector displayed this message from the National Association of Realtors: Every year, many of us in the real estate business fall prey to predators representing themselves as prospective home purchasers. Be guarded! Try to open house in tandem with another agent! When you show, don’t leave the office without letting the receptionist know when to expect you back! Insist your prospects meet you at the office and introduce them to the receptionist! Take them in your own car; avoid getting in the prospects car! Take a course in martial arts! Carry a can of mace or pepper spray! If you get in trouble, fight back with everything at your disposal, including ballpoints, fingernail files, and knees. Experience has shown that those who fight back live!!!

When the lights in the large meeting room came on, Charlie studied the anxious faces. Some were young, some not so young. All were listening to see where this was going.

Chapter 5

The message was serious; too much so to be disregarded. The meeting had been pre-announced as pertaining to something that might save lives, but the poor show of attendance was an indication of how little the city’s real-estate agents worried about someone attacking them on the job. What few males were at the meeting were now openly laughing and joking. Concern was evident on the prettier faces in the crowd. Some were looking at the revelers with disgust. Finally, a hand went up.

Charlie was prepared for questions. He pointed in her direction and nodded, desperately scouring his memory for a name. She worked independently—listing agent for a large outlying subdivision called River Cliff, several miles from the city. Is there a question,—

finally—Nancy?

Nancy Simmons was petite. She didn’t look the part of a person who occasionally handled large financial transactions, but neither did most of her young co-agents. She wore form-fitting jeans and a revealing blouse—appealingly so. Her dark hair was worn in bangs, with a ponytail hanging to the middle of her back. The blouse revealed a deep cleavage that she apparently wasn’t comfortable showing—she tugged the blouse up several times as she spoke. She was attractive and appeared to know it. When she spoke, the banter between salesmen stopped.

Charlie, can you really see us asking a potential home buyer for identification before we leave the office? With gas as high as it is, I’m not going to haul deadbeats out to River Cliff, but ask ’em for ID? Come on. How can I do that? Things are tough enough as it is.

After the Yeah’s quieted, Sally raised her hand, possibly thinking of her new customer; wondering if she should be on guard. Today, her choice was an amber pantsuit over a white blouse discreetly open at the neck. Her dark hair was well done. She wore little makeup; her light tan helped. She looked competent but was evidently finding the subject troubling. She jumped when Charlie said, Yes, Sally.

I think a lot of us are already doing some of the things National is suggesting, Charlie, and I can buy a can of pepper spray and keep it in my purse. But I can’t really see myself kicking a man in his privates or jabbing him in the eye with a ballpoint. Not many of us can do that. Do you really think this is something we need be concerned about here in Yellowstone County?

Sheena patted Sally’s arm when she sat.

Charlie didn’t look like a tough guy. He was clean-shaven with a fingernail hold on youth. His hair was whipped over the top of his head in an attempt to hide bald. His suit bulged in the middle, and his tie was slightly askew. He looked as one might expect board presidents to look, the quintessential good-old boy. His reply was not unexpected, I’m no one to give advice on self-defense, Sally. We’ve never had an incident that I know of. Some of you may have had a few flirts thrown your way, probably done a little flirting yourself, but an actual attempt to attack, I don’t think so; never heard of one.

Bob Reilly had to smirk. Some years before, he had his cojones fondled by an executive’s wife as her husband was proceeding them, looking in closets. She squeezed past as he stood in a bedroom doorway and groped him without breaking conversation with her husband. He looked at some of his friends who had heard the story. They were all pointing, laughing.

I wonder if having your fanny patted would be considered an attack, whispered a drop-dead gorgeous Dorothy Stanhope. I got a free feel from a prominent preacher while his wife was swooning over a bed of roses. She smothered the statement to Sheena and Sally. Sheena smiled and shrugged. Sally turned away, more interested in what was being discussed.

The board could probably hire someone to give self-defense classes, Charlie continued. There’s also those Kung Fu or Judo places or whatever they call them.

Martial-arts studios, Charlie.

Yeah, whatever. We get stuff like this coming down from National all the time. We can’t just dismiss it.

Finally, Monica Brown spoke up, I think it’s something each office should work out for itself.

The assemblage seemed to agree. No help was needed here in River City.

Blythe Stevens added a final comment as Charlie glanced at his watch. She was chubby, plain, kinda cute, and dressed in jeans and a sweater that exposed a protruding naval complete with ring. The top of a tattoo, ending who knows where, showed above her jeans in the rear. If you girls are attacked by one of those rapist guys, hold him till I get there. I’ll put that dude to good use.

The room erupted in guffaws. When the laughter quieted, Charlie said, Any more questions? We’re running past our allotted time. No more questions, we’re out of here. He waited a moment before he dropped the gavel. As he collected his notes, several Realtors stopped by the podium to confirm their feelings about the matter. One asked, Charlie, why were you so nonchalant up there? You looked like you knew how everyone was going to respond to all those impossible precautions.

Did I? Didn’t intend to let it show. I was pretty sure what I was going to hear, and I heard it. You ever think about it? America’s got about three age classes of real-estate sales people. The old ones, as safe as if they’re in God’s pocket; the middle-aged ones, some worry but not much, unless they’re real pretty; and then there’s the twenty to forty group. They’re the ones doing the moving and shaking and they’re the ones who think they’re bullet proof. I gotta get out of here, appointment.

Thanks, Charlie.

Yeah. Have a happy.

Chapter 6

As Charlie drove to the office, his mind was jumping: The message I carried to the board was troubling, but in the midst of the first serious recession I’ve ever seen, should I make a big deal out of it? A lot of those girls hearing about attacks aren’t going to be around, they’ll be gone—victims of the recession.

How should we treat this attack-on-real-estate-agents thing? No deal is worth losing your life for. Every year, we hear of Realtors getting robbed or killed because they didn’t trust their instincts when someone makes them feel uncomfortable. Real estate is a high-risk profession, what with agents mobile and working alone. We interact with strangers and visit unoccupied properties. I’ve heard of prospects showing up with a wife and kids, nice car, business card saying doctor or lawyer, salesman turns his back, and clonk, knock on the head. Wakes up with no wallet, no watch, sometimes no car, and often it happens after they’ve shown the people several properties.

Maybe I can implement a plan at my office for open houses.

A knot of stragglers watched Charlie pull out. Raucous comments were flying. The crowd of salesmen gathered outside the Elk’s Club was exchanging thoughts about their top choice for a rapist. One at a time, their choices started with Know who I’d pick if I were… . Dorothy Stanhope was leading, but she had competition.

Some of the comments were entertaining, but many verged on vindictive. All the salesmen knew each other and the women they were discussing; sharing listings had accomplished that. Unlike others sales jobs, real-estate sales work